T 



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OEJIC/\L Wo^f^s 



OF 










Entered aecoixlmg ui act of Congress, in the year 1885, by Will T. Lakin, 
in the office of the Librarian of Congress. 



Gkay & Clarksok, 
Printers. 



TO 



J A Q r I X M I L I. E R 

THESE DEFICIENT EFFUSIONS OF MY YOUTH 

ARE INSCRIBED. 

THE AUTHOR. 



Preface. 

T ^' 

I H E s E effusions are placed before the public ^\ ith nnicb 
(littideuce, because, since "' Scribiuuis indocti. doctiijue, 
Poemata passim," they may be only half read and unjustly 
criticised. . . . They are the labors of my yuulh. and who 
will expect to tind in them the elejiance and correctness of 
Terence, the inventive genius of a Homer, or the suldimity 
of an .Eschylus? They may be burdened ^\ith faults, yet 
perhaps the critic can find some thoughts to commend, if so 
disposed. 

The greater number of these poems were written in my 
eighteenth year, and are published in the order that they 
were composed. 

Will T. L.vkix. 

BoONSBOKo', Sept. 17, 'S5. 






!?<p\ '^^ 



Av 






i/za '^^iriQi^ Cf ajj^ircr: 

.ltr|p bleak winds of March 

Sweep over the moor. 
And whistle around 

The lone cabin door. 
They come howling and prowling. 
And growling and scowling, 

With a speed too rapid to score. 

The lark in her glee 

Soars along in the gale, 
And swiftly moves o'er 

The hill and the dale. 
With her singing and ringing, 
And springing, yet bringing 

The news of the herd in the vale. 



And the leafless trees, 

Bending to and fro, 
Whip the winds as they pass, 

While harsher they grow 
With their dashing and lashing, 
And smashing and crashing, 

Yet onward in this way they go. 

But soon they will cease 

When April comes on : 
Aye, this tells in truth 

That winter is gone, 
With her snowing and blowing, 
And lowing, yet going 

As th' mildest of winters have done. 

Then flowers spring up 

And birds sweetly sing, 
And these are the pleasures 

That March winds do bring, 
With their budding and flooding. 
And sowing now growing. 

And these are the tokens of s[)ring. 




(^ociJTiofJS, 



^Jp^rl IC^- 



• Sweet hour of rest I iibiquitary rest, 
To nature weary thou a welcome guest. 
NoAv fades the distant towering spire, 
And rustics from yon broken fields retire, 
And leave me lone in meditation thrust, 
As men their friends who after riches lust; 
Yes, friends forgot, and riches in their stead, 
And this some call ambition, this they wed; 
Yet there are men among the commonwealth 
Too rich for poverty, too poor for wealth. 
Bless' d be that man who in this confine treads, 
Eternal happiness around him sheds 



Her gladsome rays to animate his breast 
Shows manliness in man is only bless'd. 
Here all alone, while silence most profound 
Holds reverential sway the world around. 
Remote in this secluded spot, survey 
The scenes yon distant villages display. 
But here, up yonder path, Ernesto comes. 
Perhaps with some well-graced enconiums. 
'Why wander here, Ernesto, I entreat, 
Among these pleasing scenes of nature sweet? ' '* 

Like the wild fox, when driven from moor to fen. 
Seeks some hid haunt, if thus denied her den. 
So I, when press'd from door to door in scorn. 
I wander here, unnoticed and forlorn, 
And in some hidden grove my past years con : 
Let those keen thoughts I long conceal'd creep on. 



How silent thought steals on us when alone ; 
By thought man is himself as man best known. 
From thought alone our greatest actions spring : 
Thought makes an animal a being — 
]Makes us partakers of tlie joy of heaven : 
By far, thought is the greatest blessing given. 



'Tis thought of heaven that brings all men to prayer, 
'Tis a bright thought that makes yon happy pair 
Beneath the oak their vows of love declare. 
Ernesto, has that passion ever fired 
Thine heart?" 

''No. thou hast ne'er admired. 
Ask you what love is? Love is a desire 
That moves the heart or wakes the chorded lyre ; 
Love in the human breast can ne'er be quad, 
'Tis but the recognition of our God. 
And say you why, Ernesto ? God is love, 
'Tis a power granted to us from above. 
We hope that we may find beyond the grave 
A rest." 

'' Hope," cried Ernesto, -'need we crave ; 
Hope is an ever-blooming flower in the breast; 
All hope lies in to-morrow, 'tis confess'd ; 
To-morrow tells how favor'd we might be. 
To-day we realize how cursed are we. 
Hope dwells with men in every soil and station ; 
Hope is the parent of procrastination : 
It lures us on with phantoms fair, 
And we are cheated ere we are aware." 



'Ernesto, well thou speakest, but we know 
Often success attends us here below, 
And without hope to live is not a life ; 
Hope brightens our calamities when rife, 
Abiding hope of the Three Sisters one : 
To Love, 'tis like the Father to the Son. 
Behold the laughing clan in yonder fell ! 
List ! how the sprightly strains of music swell. 
The mirthful laugh, the aged murmur low, 
The whip-poor-will's first song, the cock's shrill crow 
Ring o'er the land, and from yon mountain crest 
Starts the bald eagle from her lofty nest. 
And now, Ernesto, as the sun is low, 
Display thy minstrelsy before I go." 



''ifusl^'il is the warbler's carol sweet. 
Nor moves a leafy bough ; 
And here, my friend, I will repeat 

What feelings will allow; 
And now, while twilight fades away. 
Will from my soul pour forth my lay. 

14 



'•A pilgrim on this trodden soil, 

1 roam from shore to shore ; 
Though I am poor, yet life's no toil, 

Nor poverty deplore. 
Whate'er the pleasures riches give^ 
At some one's sacrifice we' live. 

"Yes, a lone pilgrim, long forgot 
By friend, by foe, by brother, 
There's one within a little cot 

Remembers me — my mother. 
And ere I left she said to me : 
' This is a lesson take with thee : 
Where'er in other lands we roam. 
The dearest spot to us is home.' " 

''Here, here in the wildwood at evening I roam. 
While my dear old mother is waiting at home ; 
She longs my return, and, oh ! I to-night 
See her black eyes careworn, once beaming and bright, 
Drop a tear for her son, now far from her side — 
Her son who once loved her, her hope and her pride ; 
Yes, far, far away o'er the dark ocean deep, 
AVhere the sea birds' wild scream lulls the sailor to sleep, 

^5 



Or the black, threatening clouds o'erhang the blue sea 
'Mid all these sad thoughts, still she's waiting for me.' 



^>^ 



yhe DepartureN^-^ 

''Farewell, farewell the land I prize, 
I'll seek the briny foam, 
And other shores sliall greet my eyes ; 
Farewell, my native home. 

" Farewell, my mother; who shall cheer, 
Or wilt thou be a mome ? 
For thee Fll drop a parting tear ; 
Farewell, my native home. 

" Adieu to friends — Portia, adieu ; 
The banquet at the dome 
I'll seek, there often dream of you 
And of my native home. 

" Farewell the sports that pleased my youth, 
In other lands I'll roam, 
And test their pleasures, test with truth; 
Farewell, my native home. 



/6 



*' Perhaps dejected, careworn, spent, 
I'll seek some hidden nome, 
And there in tender tears lament 
I left my native home. 

''And often I will sit me down 
To read that holy tome, 
A mother's gift, a heavenly crown, 
Far from my native home. 

*' I'll taste the fruits of other climes, 
Some juicy Afric pome ; 
Perhaps the aromatic thymes 
Far from my native home. 

'' Yon village fades before my gaze 
As I the waters comb ; 
Great God, my voice to Thee I raise, 
Bless Thou my native home." 



f/ 



"^PART ir<^ 

•' jintl here again, at evening's close. 
We'll talk the eve away, 
'Till night her misty vail o'erthrows 
And lays to rest the day. 

''Then speak, Ernesto, sing of love, 
Or life, or truth, or years; 
Thy minstrelsy can always move — 
Move me to smiles or tears." 

My life I'll sing ; " and stroking his beard. 
He struck his harp, his throat he clear'd ; 
Then through the wood with measured time 
Broke forth the Minstrel's lay sublime. 



^ 



ONG-^ 



«• Est viti misero longa, felici brevis." 

'j\|itlst the turmoil of war and strife 
I then began this varied life, 

i8 



Where lift the towering mountain peaks, 

Where oft is heard the wild goats' bleats. 

Where winter lingers half conceal'd 

'Till summer blossoms are reveal'd ; 

Here, in a town for duty famed,, 

My way of life and virtue framed. 

Yes, though your neighbor alway knew 

Your business just as well as you, 

Yet he was alway glad to lend 

His best advice, and be your friend. 

In him dwelt kindness to a fault. 

The fallen beggar to exalt ; 

The shatter'd drunkard, broken, maim'd, 

Sought a home here, and was reclaim'd ; 

Oft would he to the lads relate 

The horrors of a drunkard's fate, 

And show them when, to evils blind, 

How vice contaminates the mind. 

And still methinks I plainly hear 

My father's voice ring loud and clear, 

For ere he wound his way to bed 

Grey's Elegy he always read ; 

His lips shook at each touching part 

As if an arrow pierced his heart ; 



^9 



He thrill'd my soul and first taught me 

To love and study poesy. 

Still, still I hope, though far removed, 

To wander home, where I am loved. 

How dear is home to every one. 

That spot we ever, ever own. 

The savage Indian of the west 

Feels this thought keenly in his breast ; 

And when the pale-face dares invade 

On ground for which he dearly paid, 

He, at the sacrifice of life, 

Fiercely unsheathes his scalping-knife 

And braves the glistening bayonet. 

Or mounts the frowning parapet, 

And to his comrades loudly calls ; 

Then, pierced by bullets, reels and falls. 

Can war destroy, can strife unman 

That thought without destroying man ? 

Ah, no ! 'tis innate in the breast ; 

Who claims a home feels he is blest. 

Whether amid Sahara's sands 

Or in the frozen polar lands, 

Or in the pleasant temperate zone ; 

The land most dear he claims his own. 



What plants that feeling in the mind 
In every family of mankind ? 
'Tis but the joy of liberty. 
The thought alone of being free; 
Around our firesides first glow 
Freedom of speech while here below. 
Oh, thou sweet village, dear to me, 
My heart longs a return to thee ; 
Back to my home, where virtue strove 
To make our homes a home of love. 
And there, amid her shaded dells, 
Where silence there forever dwells. 
Turn to my God from vice away, 
While resignation paves the way." 




^tmuJnHon/ 



" Id quod abest, siniulat, dissimulat quod adest." 

Jjiiist be thyself, you'll ne'er provoke 
Your dearest friends or your kinsfolk ; 

For he who studies self outright 

Is he who walks by Wisdom's liglit. 
An empty head, on massive shoulders swung, 
Oft carries an idle, prattling tongue. 

To think we are when are not, 

Is a thought that ev'ry fool has got. 

Be true to self, and he who can 

Shall hear these words: "Thou art the man!" 
As Israel heard the Prophet sternly say, 
When age had tarn'd his long locks gray. 

By words we may deceive our friends, 
And gesture oft a power lends ; 

But actions are the noblest test 

When rooted in the human breast. 
Think deep when age is come, and well while young ; 
It puts in Action's mouth a tongue. 



^I^at is life — a fleeting shadow 
On a globe that whirls in space ; 

There awhile and then departing 
To a nobler, better place. 

Life at best is half a failure — 
Bear this always fresh in mind ; 

Intolerance is a natural weed 
In the bosom of mankind. 

Youth is full of many errors, 

And they leave their stains behind 

Age recalls, but not erases, 

What seems buried in the mind. 

Life is precious — time demands it. 

Each day brings us nearer dust ; 
Earthly treasures are not lasting, 

If they are, then God's unjust. 

2? 



O, ye wealthy, here's your heaven, 
And enjoy it while ye can ; 

The poor will wait and trust a promise 
Made by Jesus Christ to man. 

Of all the fools in God's creation 
Money'd fools are far the worst ; 

Pride's a fountain where they linger, 
Linger round to quench their thirst. 

Do your best and men will make it 
Better still than you surmise ; 

Your sunset may be the dawning 
Of another man's sunrise. 

An idle thought we must subdue 
With the sternness of a Russ ; 

If not, our foolish notions will 
Be sure to conquer us. 



y 



24 



Iniitatiuii of Martial's Ep. 

gaiilESt flower of the dell 
None thy beauty can excel ; 
Thy sweet fragrance in the air 
Lends a nosegay everywhere. 
At the close of summer's day 
Forth the merry maidens stray 
Through the meadows, dewy wet, 
Pluck thee, blueey'd violet. 

Thou hast deck'd the laughing bride, 

Full of hope and haughty pride ; 

Thou hast seen the fallen tear 

Trickle down the solemn bier ; 

Thou hast smiled where joys went round ; 

Thou hast faded oh the mound. 

Wilt thou rear thy tiny head 

O'er my final resting bed? 



On the meadows thy blue vest, 
Where the skylark builds her nest, 
On the mountains' sloping side 
Where the cunning foxes hide, 
Everywhere thy branches creeping 
Everywhere thy bloom is peeping 
Would you tell me you are true? 
Nellie, give me violets blue. 



^^, 



^ 



26 




^I^crc. oh, where : is any blessing 
Half so high and grand as Truth? 

It keeps the pratthng tongue from erring, 
And guides the haughty-minded youth. 

HeracUtus, in all his glory, 

Left a throne its depths to scan. 

And upon the shore of Destin 

Pick'd the shells of Truth for man. 

Passions sure will conquer passion, 
Truth and virtue conquer all, 

Reflection comes— a great restorer- 
Saves us often from a fall. 

A hundred thousand boyish fancies 
Gloat upon man in their turn ; 

High, the innate passion glowing, 
In his am'rous bosom burn. 



27 



Let us know that Truth is might}' 
Seek it ahvays for the best; 

And in trials and misfortunes 
It will always stand the test. 






28 



^r, E^cnu^g or) it)C ^iU 

^^I^pn the golden sun is setting 

On the Ethiopian Nile, 
Here the cluster'd pahns are waving 

As the Ught plays on awhile. 

Soon the moon takes up the story, 
With her soft and mellow light 

Throws her beams upon the water, 
Naught but stillness tells its might, 

Or the camp-fire burning brightly 

Makes a tale in mem'ry new ; 
• Here the Arab tells his stories, 
Always novel, often true. 

Near her banks the temple Luxor 
Slowly yielding to decay ; 

And the huge Osiride pillars 

Soon, ah 1 soon, shall pass away. 



These gorgeous ruins are but branches 
Of a flow'r that once bloom'd ; 

But for years they have protected 
Kings and wise men there entomb'd. 

Whilst I sit and ponder over 
Home and near relations dear, 

The thought is broken by the creaking 
Of the windmill standing near. 

Now and then I hear the voices 
Of the happy Dinka slaves, 

Singing while they fill the dumbtree 
With a draught the hot soil craves. 

O'er the barren plains extending 

Cultivated spots are seen. 
Where the life sustaining durra 

Grows beside the running bean. 

On her bank the sun's rays basking 

All her vegetable store ; 
Here the zik-zak cries 'mid silence, 

Wakes its friend upon the shore. 



30 



=^fc^ JorBakn faid:;:^ 

1'yc often heard a story told, 
And like all stories, sadly old : 
'Twas years ago, (as all tales run- 
But to begin since I've begun,) 
Within a village near the sea . 
A maiden roam'd while young and free, 
And learn'd to taste the joys of love, 
And like them, too, as many do. 
Upon a farm their lived a swain 
With brawny hands and little brain ; 
His tongue was loose, and much inclined 
To loose the channel of his mind. 
He sought the city, this all knew. 
And saw how city people do. 
And this lad was the maiden's choice. 
Her first, I mean, when sweet sixteen ; 
Some thought she loved him to excess. 
That he of course loved much the less. 



S^ 



At last he claimed her loving heart, 

And thought himself quite passing smart. 

A year roU'd on, and at its close 

A very different scene arose : 

For now he loved another maid, 

And now to her his devoirs paid. 

The news spread round, and many jeers. 

Had brought the tender maid to tears ; 

Then mantling up her bitter pain, 

She tried to hope, but all in vain. 

Then with a courage vastly wise 

She boldly said, with tearful eyes: 

*' Aye, he who practices deceit 

Is to himself a glorious cheat." 

This is a saying cast away, 

Learn it, you'll need it some other day. 

The lad one evening met the maid, 

And turn'd his head, and proudly said : 

" 'Tis dreadful to be poor, I know, 

For life is but a field of woe." 

Poor man ! he learn' d to plow that field, 

And taste its fruits at every yield. 

The maiden tasted happiness, 

She married happy — nothing less — 



And lived to learn that things we prize ; 
Experience may teach iis to despise. 

MORAL. 



Be wise to-day. 
And ye who will, 

When th' morrow comes 
Be wiser still. 




SS 



lt$ Vanities and it$ End. 

Galm was the eve, the wind wa.^ hush'd 
Th' autumnal sky now softly bhish'd 
Beneath the plane-trees' cooling shade, 
AVhere youthful vows of love were made; 
And even age, when free from care. 
Here 'neath its spreading bowers repair. 
Here, on this eve, the happy throng 
Had come to hear the Minstrel's song ; 
Oft had he sung of pleasures rife, 
And of the fopperies of life. 
The Minstrel raised his silvery head, 
With trembling eyelids softly said : 
*' I'll sing of Life and of its End, 
And now I beg you all attend." 
Then, from his harp with double sway, 
Eroke forth the strains, and thus the lay : 



"List! O Muses, vouchsafe your aid ! 
To Guittone your honors paid. 
Since then, methinks you have forgot 
The humble Minstrel in his cot ; 
Yet wanton faith so oft we find, 
Come, Greg'ries, teach the human kind, 

''Oft unsuccessful in our schemes, 
Yet think we feel success in dream-; ; 
And these are buds that often bloom 
Within the cursed vaulted tomb. 
There meet such men as Manfride 
With broken pride, as thou canst see. 

-'In courts or camps of learned men 
The fluent tongue oft fears the pen. 
To sweet perfection oft men strive — 
What souls can ever there arrive? 
Ambition's fruit I ask thee taste. 
Its very core must go to waste. 

''This world's a river, and men a boat 
That on its crested waters float ; 
Success' breeze wafts them along, 
Then Failure's waves take up the song. 



3J 



Like a mastitt''s clutch upon a bone, 
They stand quiescent and alone." 

Here paused the Minstrel for awhile, 
And thus began, with half a smile : 

^'A truthful lesson here I'll give, 
It meets all human eyes : 
That he who struggles hard to live 
Is he who easy dies. 

*'We live not long ere we descry 
A truth fools ne'er foretell : 
That good names are as hard to buy 
As bad ones are to sell. 

"This world is made of smiles and scorns 
And each its turn to play ; 
Joys wake alike the brightest morns, 
Cares sweep those joys away. 

"No flow'r that blooms in midday sun, 
Without the kindly rain. 
Unless by toil no honors come, 
Mingled with grief and pain. 



3^ 



'There's no real gain where virtues hate 

To guide us as they should, 
Or, if we would be truly great, 
We must be truly good. 

'Some bosoms full of pleasure burn, 

And some are mis'ry's slave ; 
Yet, one by one, we wait our turn 
To fill an empty grave. 

"This life is but a fleeting dream 
Compared wdth that above. 
Ah I earth, with her deceit, I deem 
A place of empty love I 

■'Go scan this world, and try to find 
Where trouble haunts not life, 
Where mis'ry never finds mankind, 
Or men unknown to strife. 

"Who finds that spot upon this earth 
Is more than passing blest ; 
For honor will do honor's worth 
To cheer that pilgrim's breast. 



37 



'And many pilgrims here will btray 

To end in peace their years ; 
And often smile upon the way, 
Or oft for joy shed tears." 

Here died the Minstrel's song away. 
Then cried the dames, ''• Minstrel, thy song. 
Though not so good, is not so wrong." 
"Ah!" said the Minstrel, " 1 had thought 
A truthful lesson I had taught, 
And that my song with beauty rung, 
And until now had been unsung." 
'' Ah ! " said a dame with smiling eyes, 
" Here is a lesson for the wise : 
Misfortunes, with an equal lot, 
Visit the palace and the cot." 

Then cried the dames, " Minstrel, the lay I " 

Sing, sweet Erato, and inflame 

My soul with sprightly rhyme ; 
For smooth expression I have not, 

Nor pictures far sublime. 

Then pity me, an humble Bard, 
Who pities mankind all, 

3^ 



Who smiles to see a man succeed, 
And weeps to see him fall. 

''Of Life, what, Portia, can I sing? 
This can I verify : 
To live is but to contemplate 
The noblest way to die. 

''That birth is but a starting point, 
And youth and pleasures pave 
The footpath that we all must take 
In th' journey to the grave. 

" When youth is gone and age creeps on. 
Time whispers with a sigh : 
'To live is but a lesson sad 
That tells us we must die. 

"That some are weigh'd with mis'ry down. 
And yet content with life, 
Methinks that such a man is born 
Insensible to strife. 

"Truth is a shield that will withstand 
The blows and taunts of time, 
And hide us from our dreaded foes 
Of misery and crime. 



39 



And lessen tears of sheer distress 

When woe has had its turn. 
Then in affliction's deepest ooze 

A pleasure then to mourn. 

Experience is a lesson hard, 

(A thing that all men know ;) 
Each has his share, (enough, I think,) 

While we are here below. 

■ How happy is the man who lives 

In his secluded cot ; 
His faithful friends speak oft of him — 
Half of those friends forgot. 

' The gain of gold to him is naught, 

Society no charm ; 
He flatters not the faults of men. 
Nor wishes any harm. 

' Around his evening fire he draws 

His little prattling brood ; 
Tells them of battles lost and won, 
Or some well-noted feud. 

40 



'''When pleasures burn within the breast, 
And folly's tide runs high ; 
'Tis then we oft forget to live, 
Yet ne'er forget to die. 

^'It is most hard to reap despair; 
But in the dole of lot, 
It is a glorious thing to l)e 
By misery forgot. 

•''Excuse me, Portia, should I err 

In this my humble song ; 

'Tis Vanity that bids me sing, 

And thus my lay prolong. 

■"Oh ! birth of pride within the heart, 
That blunts the youthful mind, 
That teaches vanities to reign, 
And thus degrade mankind. 

*' Ye fools that hearken to the song 
Of such a siren's air, 
Will find destruction by his path 
And foot-prints of despair. 
41 



^' And wliat is splendor but a state 
Of mad career of mind — 
A rage of pleasure unenjoy'd 
With crime and vice combined.. 

*'To spend a life in idleness, 
Or hearken to pride's call, 
Or seek the Vanities of life. 
Is not to live at all. 

*'And those whom pride has had control,. 
Oh ! could they live again, 
(The common wish of most mankind,) 
To link life's broken chain. 

^'But soon, alas! they find sad want 
Companion of their years ; 
Go ask those friends of luxury ! 
Go ask for bread in tears ! 

''Ah, no ! they have no. friends like these, 
With you the die is cast; 
The friends you had but yesterday, 
Are friends now of the past. 



'' And what the gains of such a life ? 
What pleasures now await ? 
When death is nigh, then hope is gone 
Repentance comes too late. 

^'Does virtue now with tender arms 
Enclose in her embrace 
A soul unworthy, rank in vice, 
And full of black disgrace ? 

"Go seek the groves in prime of spring, 
When nature teems with grace ; 
Upon her flow'ry beds recline, 
View nature in the face. 

*'0r to those country homes repair. 
Where rural pleasure dwells, 
Where vanity has ne'er been born. 
And simple love excels. 

"There listen to the shepherd's flute, 
That charms the toiling swain ; 
Makes him forget his weary limbs, 
And pleasure conquer pain. 
43 



**0 Vanity I the sting of man ! 
False to the sons of fate, 
False to thyself; a wasting flame 
Of misery and hate. 

^'Go to yon cities, where, 'mid pomp, 
There enslav'd virtue writhes. 
Where mother of corruption reignsv 
And honor, sickening, dies. 

**(.)r turn thine eyes where want resides, 
AVhere hunger has control. 
Where hundreds cry for death to come, 
And ease each dying soul. 

"Or see a mother search in vain 
For her lost babe that lies 
Upon some hillside, where it stray'd. 
Where calmly now it dies. 

"She scales the city o'er and o'er, 
And thro' the grassy dale. 
And on the hilltop, where she finds 
Her baby cold and pale. 

44 



''And on its marble cheek there stands 
A frozen flood of tears, 
Its pallid lips are closed in death, 
Now free from worldly cares. 

"Those baneful hists that steal away 
The conscience of the mild. 
Leaves the white-headed piiantom cling. 
And pious thoughts run wild. 

"O Vanity, thou cursed rogue ! 
Thy slings I cannot limn ; 
But he who trusts thy siren voice, 
God pity, pity him ! 

'' There's nothing here immortal, 
No matter where we turn ; 
Age, intellect and beauty, 
Must to the dust return 

' = Vanity of Vanity, 

All Vanity is naught ; 
'Tis but an empty gurgle, 
'Tis but a vacant thought. 
45 



••'If egotistic, Portia, 

Oh I let it not be seen. 
If thou canst hide an error, 
O'er this fault cast a screen. 

^Or if success attend thee, 
In action or in mien, 
Remember that there's nothing new — 
Whate'er is now has been. 

'And oh, fair Portia! I must now 
Great death his dues descr}-. 
I tremble at futurity. 
Yet dare to prophesy. 

••Age is the time, I have been told, 
That men regard their state, 
And ponder o'er neglected things 
Corrected just too late. 

•'When fond Mnemosyne forsakes th' brani, 

A truth we do regret : 
That what we would remember most 
We always nrst forget. 

46 



-"When time on fleeting wings bath left 
Its traces on behind, 
Soon comes a day when we must leave 
And calmly die, resigned. 

■''Then, in the narrow couch we rest, 
Wrapped in our silken shroud ; 
Beyond, the vices of the world. 
And voices of the proud. 

'^'Thus age awaits that final day — 
That day of deep repose ; 
And for that day, when we shall rise, 
For what, God only knows. 

"''Tis pleasure for a man to know 
The object of his birth ; 
'Tis crime for him to fail to know 
His duty here on earth. 

" When that day comes (as come it will) 
For you to steal away 
Into your chamber and resign 
Your human form to clay, 
47 



■*Go with a smile upon your face, 
Your heart to God resign'd, 
And leave your cares within the dust 
That shall remain behind. 

■*To many happy hearts death is 
Quite an un welcomed guest. 
But it is welcomed by the one 
With troubles hard oppress'd. 

■'To such as these life easy comes. 
And death as easy goes, 
And leaves the body in a trance. 
Or in a sweet repose. 

•'How oft does death a comfort prove, 
Tho' no foreboding give; 
How oft a painful sting it brings 
To those who love to live. 

•'There's many a flower in the wood 
Unnoticed by us, grow ; 
There's many hid troubles in the breast 
That we must needs forego. 

48 



*' And oft does discontented man 
Complain of life and lot, 
When misfortunes more in others wake, 
Make half his cares forgot. 

^'The dark of night makes man enjoy 
The splendors of the day ; 
The crimes of men should always teach 
Mankind to never stray — 

^ ' Stray from that path of rectitude 
Into a path of shame, 
And dying, leave no trace behind, 
Nor glories of a name. 

''' But he who loves to do the right, 
And will his God adore. 
Shall be rewarded when he lands 
Upon that golden shore. 

'•And such a recompense, O men I 
No human tongue can tell : 
Ah ! earth in all her glory is, 
Compared with it, a hell. 
4') 



''So when thy Ufe draws to a close 
Then to thy couch repair, 
And with uphfted hands to him 
Then murmur forth a prayer. 

"Some leave when budding spring breaks forth. 
And some 'mid winter's blast, 
And some die like the autumn flow'rs 
When blooming days are past. 

"But there will come a day when men 
Shall see yon sun grow dark, 
And earth shall reel and totter round. 
And wait one ray, one spark. 

" All shall await the break of day 
With anxious care and pain, 
And watch and hope and wonder, U)0, 
But watch and hope in vain. 

"The stars shall dash from ^pace to space, 
And other suns invite 
To their dark planets, that await 
A glimmering ray of light. 



'•The bells shall peal their last notes forth 
To summon men to prayer, 
And infidels will now believe. 
And for their end prepare. 

"Seas, rivers, mountains, deserts, rocks. 
And all the work of art, 
Shall bow and show their littleness- 
Strike terror to the heart. 

"The seas shall roll her billows high 
Against her rocky shore, 
Where vessels shall be madly dash'd, 
And lost for evermore. 

"The mountains shake and crumble down, 
The earth shall yawn — behold ! 
Its massive jaws are open wide. 
To engulf the young and old. 

"Tiie earth shall heave a grumbling groan. 
Then tremble all things round, 
l^he massive domes shall crash and fall 
Unguarded to the ground. 



5^ 



'The End is come 1' methinks I hear, 

Ring o'er the barren land ; 
Approaching death now overhangs 

Earth's melancholy band. 

'The screams of men, the agony 

In dying such a death ; 
Oil ! who can tell the countless prayer^, 

A prayer in ev'ry breatli. 

•Then molten iron to earth shall fall, 

As thick and fast as hail, 
On careworn bodies sick of life, 
Stretch'd over hill and dale. 



*' Their flesh shall flash and burn away 
Like faggots in the air : 
Thesick'ning smoke and vapors rihe 
From many a form once fair. 

*' Their sunken eyes be last to burn, 
For tears shall quench the flame, 
As long as e'er there still remains 
The traces of a frame. 



*'The prisoner in chains shall wrench. 
Till from his eyes run blood ; 
Then sink exhausted slowly down 
Into his ruby flood. 

"No pompous generals now command 
Their glittering ranks of men, 
Upon the bloody batde- field, 
Against the foe again. 

"Their names are lost, their deeds are done. 
They now await their doom, 
Upon earth's crisped face they lie 
Forgot, without a tomb. 

' "No spring with mornings bright shall come, 
Nor autumn leave her trace 
Of silv'ry dewdrops spread upon 
The morning-glories' face. 

"Th' pretentious spendthrift yesterday, 
In gaudy robes array'd, 
At the gay banquet and the ball 
Smiled at the willing maid. 
53 . 



'' Who could have said that yesterday 
Such awful day should break ? 
That slumbering beauty, full of hope, 
Should never more awake ? 

^' Where pleasure dwells there also creeps 
Sad fate to frame our fall ; 
Uncertain death makes certain most — 
Prepare to meet thy call. 

''The seas shall boil from zone to zone, 
The steam shall fly to void, 
The hidden monsters of the deep 
Shall rise and be destroyed. 

''And bards shall leave unfmish'd thoughts 
And boldly meet their fate ; 
Well may they die, for oft methinks 
That dying makes men great. 

''For them the bright P^lysium fields 
Shall never waft a breeze, 
Nor Tempe's valley haunt them more, 
With all its budding trees. 

54 



^'Then, Tellu?, give thy milk to earth, 
Let other nations rise 
Hiat will do honor to their God, 
And all His blessings prize. 

■''Let Themis rise and Mentor come. 
x\nd Phrebis be thy friend : 
To Lucina and Cynthius 
A thousand blesses lend. 

^'But, no! a brighter day awaits, 
When earth will be no more — 
When she again on fleeting wings 
Shall back to chaos soar. 



''He who could gaze upon tliat scene 
With a regretful eye, 
Could leave the judgment seat of God 
And come to earth to die. 

" But now an orb lights up the earth, 
The trumpets from on high 
Shake all creation with the blast 
That echoes to the skv. 



55 



And now again the trumpets sound ^ 

The sleepers all awake, 
And lift their voices high in air 

That makes creadon quake. 

Then ope the gates of heaven wide 

And gaily some ascend 
To greet their God with joyful heart 

When grief is at an end. 

I see surround His altar grand 

Plutarch and Socrates, 
Milton, Plato, Heraclitus, 

And mighty men like these. 

' But now, alas ! methinks I see 

Great Antony appear 
With trembling face before his Judge — 

His shame demands a tear. 

So come they all — the good, the proud — 

To meet expected fate ; 
Some wail ere their doom is pronounced, 

But cry, alas I too late. 



But turn my tlioughts, O gentle Muse ! 

May I judge no man ill, 
But learn to live that I may die 

Obedient to His will." 

Hush'd is the lay, the Minstrel's hands 
Drop from his harp, the throng disbands. 
Though hush'd the song, the zephyrs play, 
The distant watch dog's solemn bay, 
The crowing cock, the laughing band 
Break loudly o'er a slumbering land. 
Still sits the Minstrel 'neath the trees, 
Fann'd by the midnight's chilling breeze. 
Then, leaning on his harp, he said : 
*'A stone my pillow, and the earth my bed." 
Then on the cold earth he sank down, 
As the bell struck one in the distant town. 






57 



To C. Y. I. 

^^0 the fleet that bore thee over 

The bkie and stormy sea 
Is a smile from him who wishes 

Health and wealth where'er you be. 
On the fair Ionian Isles, 
Where our winters lend their smiles, 
And no human tongue beguiles, 

Such a glorious country. 

Here the black-ey'd Grecian maiden, 

Too true for coquetry, 
Crowns her beauty with the branches 

Of the ancient olive tree. 
Seek this spot — I ask thee seek ; 
Hear the ballads of the Greek, 
See the bhishing maiden's cheek. 

In that glorious country. 



f? 



And then to Athens haste thee on, 
Where earth has lent her charms ; 

There recHne at ease and comfort 

j^-j * * * * * * ;>< ^ -•:>!< * snow)' arms. 

Aye, she waits your tender presses ; 

Oh I to stroke those raven tresses 

Is the birth of human blesses 
In that glorious country. 



"^ 



i^o^' ) ( '^^ 



59 



'^t^ll, full well I do remember, 
It was in the mild September, 

On a Wednesday morn, 
When Lee had just retreated 
From South Mountain, where, defeated ^ 

With his troops careworn, 
And McClellan, on him pressing, 
Made a dismal sight distressing, 

With his army strong. 
Soon broke forth the hymn of battle^ 
Heard the muskets' ceaseless rattle. 

All the line along. 
Then, to my surprise and wonder. 
Heard the cannons' belching thunder 

On yon hill to right. 
Saw the forces charging — flying. 
Heard the moaning of the dying — 

What a ghastly siglit. 

6a 



All that day the cannons shelling, 
'Mid the moaning and the yelling, 

Near the old red church, 
Where the lead in showers pouring, 
And the hissing shells were soaring 

Through the spreading birch. 
Then, the twilight softly fading, 
Hush'd the hellish cannonading — 

Stopp'd the massacre. 
Each one on his musket sleeping, 
But when morning sun was peeping, 

Lee had crossed the river. 



)y 



6i 



/f 



RAGMENT. 



Il^ame is a flower that seldom is found, 

Hope is an herb that covers the ground ; 

Shame hath a sting which few blushes can measure, 

Misfortunes are something which never give pleasure ; 

Sin in disguise can talk like a saint, 

Real life is a picture that few poets paint. 



^ 

^ 



62 



WELCOME DEATH. 

AVrilten wlieu sad, oaiijcU by sickness. 

Oil, give me, thou great Lord,, some niighty power. 
Tnat I can know the wisdom of an hour. 
Youth — 'tis a dream, and oh I too soon is fled, 
And when 'tis gone the joys of Ufe are sped — 
Forever gone ! O God ! time waits alike to none. 
And ah ! too soon man's httle Ufe is spun. 
I look at man in his declining days ; 
He, like all creatures, Nature's law obeys. 
''J'is well life is a dream, and death a life 
In other worlds, free from earth's care and strife. 
Then welcome death — a pain sweet to the breast, 
A blissful pain, a heaven and a rest. 



Nut l>i?err[. liLit ^Ippjiint;. 



Lines occasioiieil by tlie death ot a beautiful infant, 

• * • terque quaterque beati 
Quels ante ora patriun. — M. I, 91. 



'Wwas midnight in a village, 

And nature slept profound; 
The night winds whisper'd gently, 

And broke the silence round. 

The rising moon with silver 1 ght, 

Behind the mountain peeping. 
Spoke softly to the weeping winds, 

"She is not dead, but sleeping." 

On a white couch a baby lay. 

Stiff was her prattling tongue ; 
\Vhat stole her from her mother's arms? 

So beautiful and so young. 

64 



" Death," saifl the father, half in tears ;. 

" Death," said the mother, weeping. 
Then broke a whisper from above, 

" She is not dead, but sleeping." 

Not dead ! ah, no, 'tis a new life ; 

Yes, from earth's fruitful womb. 
Death on this earth, methinks, is but 

A l)irth, yet from the tomb. 

I gazed on her while th' moon's soft light 
Half through the curtain peeping, 

I lisp'd the numbers that she spoke, 
" She is not dead, but sleeping." 

Not dead, because her spirit lives, 

'Tis left to angels' keeping. 
And those who live as God ordains 

Will see that she was sleeping. 




6j 



01]! daughter of America, 

Attend my humble song, 
Tho' J offend, I'll not pretend 

To hold you ver}- long. 

Brief is my lay ; my thoughts, I know, 

Are most unkemptly wove. 
If true, I sigh ; untrue, I fly 

To Tempes' fruitful grove. 

AVhen morning dawns u})on our shores 

And breaks into a day, 
Then rise the gay ; they rise, I say, 

To waste their hours away. 

With satins rare, a maid I see, 
Goes tripping through the streets ; 

Past th' poor she goes with upturn'd nose, 
The rich with smiles she greets. 

bb 



She will forget that human llesh 

Is but the growth of dust ; 
That from the same all mankind came 

Back to the same he must. 

Then, lady, learn humility 

Is the grand stairway to 
Great Honor's gates, where man await:- 

His turn to totter throus^h. 



67 



sk i^EST. \}; 



Bent down with care, distress'd, and sick at heart — 

Sick of this stage ere one has play'd his part — 

The poet, scribbling for the cultured ear. 

Tired of the critics' clash from year to year. 

The farmer, weary of his endless toil, 

Lives half a beggar on impoverish 'd soil ; 

Turns to those shades where mind and heart may rest, 

And having lived in misery die much blest. 

At rest, dear L=^ * * "^ *, that recalls to mind 

Those lines you whisper to the evening wind. 

Oft have those touching strains swell'd at my breast, 

Oft have I long'd you whisper, ^' Is there rest?" 

Perhaps when mother earth gives up her dead. 

And I shall rise and quit my narrow bed. 

Share that sweet home in heaven where friends shall meet, 

Where none can tread, dares tread save holy feet. 

And should, O Heaven I tliy sacred walks I tread, 

And feel with heart and think with this same head, 

68 



Of one dear L ''' * '^ * * I would go in (jue^t : 
If to God's dirone, to whisper, •' There is rest." 
And as a bee that leaves her hive at morn 
To sip the honey from the wild hawthorn, 
Returns full laden with her wnnter store, 
Shifts her sweet burden and returns once more ; 
And then at eve, when herds wind slowly home, 
Or, when the woodman from his toil has come, 
He, like them all, returns from labor tired, 
Methinks content with what he has acquired. 
Thus, thus the farmer, see him at the m;jrn 1 
Ere Phoebus peeps, half his sheep are shorn ; 
And then at evening, when the day's well spent, 
Counts gains by dollars, losses by the cent, 
Then, summing up his penny losses, learns, 
Tho' half repaid, content with what he earns. 
Oh, sweet contentment! heaven thee has blest. 
Thou gentle soother of the human breast ! 
Thou teachest man misfortunes to forego, 
And li\e as God ordains him liere below. 



6g 



ERRATA. 

Tagc 22, read : 

" To think we are when wc arc not." 

Page 35, read : 

" That on its crested water lloats." 

I 'age 64, read : 

'« So beautiful and young.'' 

Page 68, read : 

" And having lived in misery dies niucli hiess'd. 



